


Four Nights (And a Kiss)

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 02, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 05:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6503428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lincoln’s no idea how or why it happens — how and why it can happen — but it does. (Season 2)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Nights (And a Kiss)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Foxriverinmate for the beta.

The first night on the cargo ship, they fuck up and they fuck.

Lincoln’s no idea how or why it happens — how and why it can happen — but it does: Michael on his knees behind him, sliding into him, pushing in with determination, his confidence a complete contrast with his ragged breathing and the way his hands shake as they grab Lincoln’s hips and shoulders. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it could and should. It hurts in a way that eventually makes it good. Really, really good. Better than Lincoln would have ever imagined it with a man, even more so considering the man is his—

And obviously, it’s good for Michael too because Michael’s coming inside him, hot and slick, making sure to drag Lincoln with him. Granted, dragging Lincoln into an orgasm doesn’t require amazing skills at the moment. Three years in jail and only his own hand: someone else is an improvement, except for the part of whose hand this is, who’s hot and hard in him.

But hey, at least they both come. Which is a good thing because if they’re doing this, they better not do it for nothing.

He falls asleep ten seconds after Michael has withdrawn, and when he wakes up the next morning, Michael is eating breakfast as if nothing ever happened.

\- - - - -

The second time is less of a surprise since they’ve already done that.

Or is it more of a surprise? After all, you can explain one fuck-up (well, no, not really, not this kind of fuck-up, but whatever). Two? Not so much.

It happens the same way, out of the blue. One minute they’re trying to fall asleep, each one in his own bunk; the next minute, they’re tangled on Michael’s narrow bed.

(Shit. Does it mean that tonight, it’s Lincoln who made the first move?)

Michael gasps at the touch of Lincoln’s hands, at the warmth of his breath, at their erections rubbing against one another through their boxer shorts. No kissing, no foreplay. Michael tries to roll him onto his stomach, but yeah, no way. He’s still tender from last night, both because he’s not used to what they did and because Michael wasn’t exactly patient with him. Not to mention that Lincoln is dying to retaliate-reciprocate. So not again tonight.

Tonight, he pushes Michael back against the small bed and holds him down with one hand planted on his chest, pulls their respective underwear down and away and settles between Mike’s legs. He wants him on his back. He needs him on his back with an intensity that takes him by surprise. Michael smirks at him, but the tug of his lips is forced and hesitant, reeking of fake confidence. He blinks and turns his head to the side.

Ahah. No matter how hard and good the man fucked him last night and is willing — eager — to take it up the ass tonight, he won’t do it watching Lincoln in the eyes and letting Lincoln look into his eyes 

\- - - - -

Less than a week ago, they were appalled and disgusted, shocked and holier-than-thou, when they found out about Reynolds and Steadman’s peculiar relationship.

Now, Lincoln is taking Michael’s cock into his mouth. He’s sucking, licking and kissing the hard pole of flesh like there’s no tomorrow. No technique because being on the receiving end never taught him how it was to be on the giving side, all passion. The weight, the warmth, the bitter-salted taste. He can’t get enough of it. Michael’s hands wrap around his neck and his head but don’t dare push him further down, fingers brushing restlessly across his skin; he goes for it on his own, bobbing his head up and down, a messy trail of saliva dripping down Michael’s shaft.

Michael is moaning and thrashing on the bed, the loudest he’s been since they starting doing that. Lincoln holds his hips down to the bed. The moaning and thrashing only intensifies, making Lincoln eager to see how far he can push him, how desperate he can make him.

_The things you do for your brother._

This is what Reynolds said to Michael. Michael mentioned it at some point.

_The things Reynolds did for her brother._

Michael comes in his mouth, down his throat. No warning and only a startled groan as he coats Lincoln’s tongue with his release, the muscles of his thighs and his stomach tight with pleasure. Lincoln swallows. He could say he doesn’t really have a choice, Michael still filling his mouth and all, but he swallows just because he wants to, because he doesn’t think of not doing it.

_The things Michael did for him._

“Is this why?” he asks. He kisses the tattoo on Michael’s abdomen and then, lower, the virgin skin of his inner thighs. “Is this why you had to break me out?”

Tears well up in Michael’s eyes, and for the life of him, Lincoln couldn’t say if it’s because the question is spot on or missed the mark by a thousand miles.

\- - - - -

The fourth night, there’s no fucking, no blow-job. Just Michael slipping stark naked into Lincoln’s bunk and pulling Lincoln’s pants down to press against him, chest to chest, stomach to stomach. They’re already both half-hard from the anticipation, and the close contact does nothing to calm them down.

Lincoln sneaks one hand between them and strokes Michael into full hardness, gazing at him as he closes his eyes and lets out small gasps and puffs of air. Even in the poor light of their cabin, his cheeks are flushing, his lips red and swollen and so, so tempting. Lincoln squeezes the cock in his hand harder. It’s all he can do not to yield and kiss his brother on that fucking mouth.

“How can we want _that_?” he whispers, his fingers playing with Michael. “Why...”

He trails off as Michael’s cock swells and twitches, as Michael reaches for him and reciprocates. They breathe in the same tiny space, almost in each other’s mouth, panting out of arousal and fear.

Because maybe that’s the first time in four nights that Lincoln notices it, but there’s fear in Michael’s eyes when Lincoln asks the question, when he answers in a pant, “I don’t know,” and that fucking terrifies Lincoln.

Michael should know. Michael always knows and understands this kind of shit. He’s the one of them who thinks and analyzes and understands. What if _this_ is beyond thought and analysis and understanding?

“I don’t know,” Michael says again, his tone an apology. “I don’t know. I don’t know.” He closes his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

White teeth digging in plump red lips in remorse and arousal, and that’s more than Lincoln can handle.

He caves in and kisses Michael on the mouth.

FIN


End file.
